


What Might Have Been

by Gemma_Inkyboots



Series: Renewed collection [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Amnesia, Anxiety, Gen, Post-Transformers: The Movie (1986), Ratchet is a good person as well as an awesome medic, Reunions, at least in the second part, author spawns AUs like amoebas, culture clash, hope for a happy ending, hot rod has two daddies, implied mechpreg as part of the series, past m/m, practical coping methods, serious long-term damage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-02 18:03:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4069468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemma_Inkyboots/pseuds/Gemma_Inkyboots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things could have gone very differently for Nightlight and his little one. A what-if where Dash made it to the shuttle and Nightlight...didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raisedbymoogles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/gifts).



“Hey, kid.”

Ash straightened slowly, one hand bracing on his knee as the welds down his back twinged in warning; Ratchet nodded approvingly to the mostly-sorted racks of supplies in front of him. “Nice job you’re doing there. You know who I am?”

It took Ash a moment to consider it, but Ratchet knew enough to be patient. He could be patient when it counted, slaggit, even if the hotshots in this half-afted attempt at an army wouldn’t believe it. The Vosian’s wings clicked in tighter as the quiet held, and it was both absurd and pitiful how a mech a head taller than Ratchet would try to hunch up small. Made Ratchet want to find a wrench and harangue whoever had been in charge of him up til then, but now wasn’t the time.

“Chief - medical officer,” Ash said eventually, as though he’d been casting about for the proper glyphs. If anything he’d gone overboard, carefully adding in those for _superior officer_ in both a civilian _and_ a military sense, as well as a couple that didn’t even scan right when Ratchet blinked.

“That’s right,” he said anyway, ambling over nice and slowly so the flier didn’t spook. “It took me a while to come down and introduce myself, but I’m here now. I’m gonna be running the medbay from here on in.”

The Vosian looked anxious at that, after another pause for translation; when he’d been found under the rubble of Vos the poor slagger had been a wreck, the back of his helm shredded almost as badly as his legs and wings. He’d lost most of his memory, even his original name, it seemed - and there was little chance of getting much back. Not now, with the Decepticon movement having gone from a rabble-rousing parade of riots to genocide and the hastily cobbled-together Autobot army needing all the medical supplies that weren’t going to the survivors. No matter how many times some frustrated junior medic tried pushing the Standard language pack onto him, Ash never seemed to manage actually retaining the information for long, lapsing into some kind of Vosian sub-dialect that no-one in the Autobots knew how to translate. No-one even suggested asking the Decepticon Vosians. 

...well. Not in the spirit of kindness, they hadn’t, and now it wouldn’t be within Ratchet’s hearing range either. He was in with the rest of the medics seeing just what kind of damage the Seekers of Vos were doing to the mechs he served alongside in every single engagement, and he still managed not to be cruel to a mech that hadn’t done a single damn thing wrong but be framed as a Vosian.

“So,” he said aloud, nice and clearly. “I know you’ve been in medbay since you got brought in. Wanna show me what you do in here?”

Ash’s anxiety didn’t fade right away, but as he timidly pointed out the racks of supplies he’d been organising and Ratchet only nodded and made approving noises, he relaxed a little. The Iaconian relief crew who had brought him in had found very few other survivors in their section, and most of those were traumatised and desperate to get out of the hands of mechs they saw as the opposition. Iacon might not have launched the attack that devastated Vos, but _they_ didn’t know that, and might not have believed it if they'd been told anyway. With the riot of accusations flying around after Praxus, and now after Vos, no-one really knew the truth - but they had suspicions and biases aplenty. Ratchet wasn’t immune, but he forced his attention down to the cases he could actually help and avoided the militant officers like a rust plague. He had too much to do to start beating sense into them - it would have to wait.

“Yep, looks like a real good job,” he finally said aloud. Ash looked ready to collapse with relief - what had the other medics been telling the poor kid? “So, Ash - I gotta be honest with you, here. I can look at your processor, but I went over your scans and I doubt there’ll be much I can do to bring back what you lost. I’m gonna try, if you want, but you need to think over what you wanna do after. We’re not gonna just kick you out, but there’s not much left of Vos and not many survivors, and none of ‘em want to stay around us. If you wanna leave, we’ll fuel you up an’ let you go, but if you wanna stay I was thinking maybe I could use an assistant. Nothing fancy, but I could use the help. It’s up to you.”

Ash was quiet all over again, thinking that over; mech had lost everything right down to his name, and here Ratchet was trying to push him into making decisions. Maybe he should be going and knocking some sense into those other officers - they had to ration out what they could do or be steamrollered into the ground by Megatron’s thugs, sure, but what good was it if they didn’t save anything worth having by the end of it all? And what good would come of forcing out a mech that hadn’t done anything wrong if he couldn’t fight? It didn’t take nothing but soldiers to win a war.

“Help to - fix people?” Ash asked quietly, pale wings flexing gently as his fingers knotted together. “Make things better?”

Ratchet quirked a wry grin his way at that. “Maybe fixing people. Definitely keeping things organised and sortin’ stuff, like you did over there. So, yeah, makin’ things better in the long run.”

After another careful, considering pause, Ash nodded - gingerly and a little stiffly, thanks to the still-healing damage to helm and neck and spinal struts, but with a small, hopeful smile along with it. “I want to. Help.”

“All right. First things first - lemme get a look at those repairs an’ see how you’re getting on, then we can start getting this place in shape.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the war, and what happened next.

Optimus waited, standing on the Iacon docks and feeling strangely as though he had come full circle. He insisted on being here every time a new colony ship came in, no matter what other responsibilities and projects were ongoing - Magnus may insist that he was only a soldier, but he was as calm and sensible a diplomat as any of them could be, in this strange and difficult world after the war. They were rebuilding, slowly and painfully, but with the remains of the Decepticons exiling themselves on Chaar it was steady and uninterrupted.

Well, largely.

Today’s diplomatic interruption had sent reverberations through the Autobots, and through the growing population of Neutrals who had crept out of hiding when Iacon’s population suddenly swelled from Shockwave’s drones to potential sources of income and resources. Today was the day that the colony ship _Wandering Star_ was making planetfall, along with its inhabitants - sixty-four unaligned Vosians, the only neutrals to have escaped from that city-state intact. The only non-Decepticon Vosians left in the galaxy, as far as they knew, and it had been almost two years since the fall of Unicron and the official end of the war. If there had been more, Optimus had to hope they would have contacted Cybertron by now. For now, though, hope was brought into harness beside practicality to try and make this work.

“Thinkin’ deep thoughts there, eh?” Kup murmured, standing beside him and glancing sidelong up at the Prime. So many officers had been lost in the final desperate hours of the war - Ratchet, Ironhide, the names carved into his spark alongside so many others - that it was a struggle to find anyone who had the time free to come along to meet the ships alongside him. He had met them alone, at one point, until he had realised that a single mech, even the Prime, greeting returning Cybertronians had the refugees worried about the state of the planet and resources, that they could only spare one mech. A large group was threatening, a single mech was too few; thankfully Kup’s duties as Chief of Security meant he could assign himself to any part of Cybertron and be doing something essential. Even if he was only standing beside Optimus, watching ships sink down through Cybertron’s defences.

It was a small ship compared to some - it might have been a luxury liner at one point in its life, or an inter-city transport craft. Certainly not a dedicated colony shuttle, and Optimus’ curiousity was aroused. He stepped forward as the ship nuzzled into the docking cradle with Kup at his side, making himself obvious even before the ramp lowered onto Cybertronian metal for the first time since the war.

To his shock, the first being down the ramp was a youngling. Vosian lines led Optimus to expect wings, but this youngling could have been one of his own troops. 

Optimus was distracted enough at the flame-coloured youngling descending the ramp that he initially missed the pair of adult Vosians - winged and similar enough to the Decepticon Seekers he knew that it was jarring - following the youngling down, and the third standing guard at the entryway. He glanced briefly between them, then stepped forwards to greet the youngling as the small party made their way down the ramp.

“Welcome to Cybertron,” he said carefully, keeping his hands palm-outward and well away from any subspace access points. “I am Optimus Prime.”

To his surprise, the youngling replied first.

“Is there anything of Vos left to be welcomed back to?” he asked almost idly, startlingly blue optics like Earth’s sky in summer not hiding his banked anger and accusation. One of the older Vosians gave him a sharp look, clearly sending something over comms, but the youngling didn’t turn. “My designation is Hot Rod of the Winglord’s eirie. All I’m interested in is whether my family is going to be safe here, or if we should just turn right back around and leave.”

Optimus cycled his optics; the youngling - Hot Rod - glared up at him with an interrogatory protectiveness that reminded him all too closely of Prowl. “I would not quite go so far as to say Cybertron is safe,” he said slowly, and Hot Rod’s glare intensified. “But the war is over, occasional raids by the Decepticons aside. We are rebuilding.”

That got him a long, steady look, and for all that the youngling seemed barely the age of the youngest Autobot, Optimus felt terribly small. Then Hot Rod tilted his head back to catch the optic of the golden Seeker who had snapped a Look at him before, then the white Seeker on his other side. “Opinions?”

The golden flier frowned, then noticed Optimus’ enquiring look. He seemed to consider things for a moment, then relented enough to nod warily. “My designation is Thundersong, and this is Skydance. We’re Hot Rod’s guardians, _and_ heir-presumptive for the colony.”

“Ah.” Optimus floundered for a moment, then gathered himself and gestured to Kup. “A pleasure to meet you both. This is our Chief of Security, Kup. If you have any concerns about your safety here, he is the best mech to address them.”

“Good.” Thundersong nodded sharply, then tilted his head slightly towards the ship. “We have some long-standing injuries amongst our number that need to be addressed. Is there anywhere here that can deal with old damage?”

“We got the best medics on Cybertron,” Kup boasted, but Thundersong’s optics only thinned slightly as Skydance’s flickered.

“I’m sure,” was the only reply, and Hot Rod was already turning to clatter up the ramp faster than he’d descended. “Which way?”

“I would be happy to show you,” Optimus began, then forgot entirely what he would have said as the residents of the colony ship began heading down the ramp.

_Younglings._

Over half of the colonists limping, scrambling and inching down the ramp were younglings, some older than Hot Rod and some significantly younger. He stared, and Kup was staring right alongside him, until they had to move back for there to be room on the docks for the fliers to gather. Thundersong moved along the lines that were forming up, groups of younglings with one or two or three adults supervising them, taking a headcount from one end of the line to the other with Skydance mirroring him and moving in the opposite direction.

“Primus,” he breathed softly, and one of the adults heard him.

“Hardly,” she replied, and her arms settled around the shoulders of the two slightly-built younglings shadowing her. “Iacon had nothing to do with our survival then, but hopefully we can reach some kind of accord now.” She limped heavily into place in the line, and Optimus’ vents hissed at the sight of old crushing damage twisting down her back and hips.

//First Aid,// he commed, optics glancing over the other fliers as they made ready to move out. //I have patients for you.//

*

Hot Rod had glanced around with increasing animation as they headed from the docks to the rebuilt Iacon proper. All the newcomers did, especially the younglings, and Iacon stared at them right back. It seemed the younger ones at least had never seen any frametypes other than their own, which made more sense than it didn’t but still sent an ache through Optimus’ spark. He led them through Iacon by the shortest route and straight into the medbay; Ratchet would have approved, but now the only Autobot medic to meet them was Swoop.

“Him First Aid prepping,” he reported, then bent to inspect the fliers. “Hmm! Maybe ask him Hoist to start making up Seeker parts.”

“We are _not_ Seekers,” one of the adults snapped, outrage ringing in her rich voice like an indignant cathedral bell. “We are _Vosians,_ and I do not care for being compared to whatever warmongers you might have been exposed to thus far, youngmech!”

Swoop blinked, tilting his helm; a few of the fliers twitched, arms sliding protectively around their smaller colonymates, and then the Dinobot shrugged.

“Okay,” he said easily. “Come on. You Vosians go this way.”

Optimus sighed in relief, and followed after Swoop - maybe that would reassure those still blinking after the big mech somewhat. The Vosians filed into the medbay, Swoop heading to the back and the supply bins, and seemed to be both reassured and faintly confused when First Aid beamed cheerfully at them.

“Hello!” he chirped. “My name is First Aid; I’m the CMO here. I’ll need to take some basic scans of everyone before we can really get started, but welcome to Cybertron.”

Swoop came ambling back in while First Aid worked through his scans, and behind him came a dusty-white frame that had become so much a part of every medbay Ratchet had ever worked in that Optimus thought nothing of it - until every adult Vosian in the room froze, not even a loose vent working in the sudden silence. First Aid tilted his head in confusion, about to ask a question, when Hot Rod’s cracking voice broke the silence.

_“Carrier?”_

Ash stumbled to a stop, his arms full of the light boxes that were all Ratchet would allow him to carry; his pale optics bled colour, normally a sign of an impending crash, and Optimus began to move to steady him. Hot Rod was faster, falling from the berth he had been perched on, stuttering across the medbay floor in a burst of speed that faltered as he came near.

“Carrier?” he asked again, frayed hope coming unravelled as static filled his voice, hands lifting though he didn’t seem sure what to do with them. Ash stared at him, optics almost as white as the rest of his plating - Optimus was suddenly struck with the memory of the colony ship, a white that had long since been battered by impacts and the usual wear of space travel, dashed with lines of red and blue just like Ash...

The supplies hit the ground between them, utterly forgotten. One pale hand moved, shaking as though a crash was coming no matter what, and traced down the line of Hot Rod’s crest. Hot Rod let out a soft, choking sound, fingers curling tight into his palms; Ash’s optics were dazed, pale and lost, lips moving as though trying to remember how Standard was meant to sound before speaking it.

“Dash,” he said softly, then louder. “ _Dash._ ”

Hot Rod choked, static fuzzing his voice, then Ash drew him into his arms and cradled him like a sparkling, and the fierce scion of the Winglord’s eirie clung like he would never let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help having at least the hope of a happy ending. It's not going to be easy on anyone, but they have the chance, now.

**Author's Note:**

> I am terrible for spawning a multitude of AUs for every situation in every universe. In this case - what would have happened if the Autobots had found a damaged and amnesiac Nightlight instead of a damaged and amnesiac Dash?


End file.
